F.M. Young vs. Jake Archer

The scene would open on what looked like a meat locker, the main person in front of the screen? Sloan Young. The person behind her? FM Young, the one and only amazon, wailing on a side of beef. In Sloan’s hands were a couple of pieces of paper, photographs, Sloan looking over one and then the other before addressing the camera with a wink and a little wave of her fingers. As usual the woman was hell on heels.

“You can just call her Rocky.”

Sloan would say with a little smirk. Dressed, again, like she should be in some high powered business meeting and not standing in a freezer, Sloan would cross her hands over her chest, lift her chin in defiance, and begin.

“You takin’ her serious now? You should. The woman -tried- to err on the side of sportsmanship but you just had to keep pushing. So this whole thing is your fault. You wanted to question the fighter? Now you get a monster.”

Moving closer to the camera, Sloan would hold up the first photo…a promo shot of Maddison from the last fight. There was an almost evil glint to her eyes…Sloan didn’t mind being the bitch…and after a second, she’d let out a little …

“aww…she used to be so pretty in a white trashy kinda way.”

Crumpling up the photo, she’d toss it over her shoulder without a second glance, shrugging her shoulders, the last photo, yet to be revealed.

“Guess who isn’t on the next Frontline show? Just in case you missed it, Maddison got her ass handed to her. One…two..three, Gorilla Press Slams…and then some, just for style. You can thank FM for one less Bimbo in the ring.”

FM would stand her ground, one tightly coiled fist after the next landing meaty thuds, the side of beef starting to swing as Sloan continued. One finely manicured hand would raise, and she would start counting it off.

“One. FM Young has worked every single show since she’s been signed to this fed.”

“Two. Working every show Elysium’s put out makes FM both a work horse and a monster who runs roughshode on everyone she’s been up against. She might not have won every match, but she tore that shit up and she’s not stopping till she’s champion. You picked the wrong woman to fuck with.”

“Three. FM Young is better than the peons you’ve been pitching her. Circus Freaks. Actresses who couldn’t’ figure out how to slut their way to the top. Losers. I AM THE BEST…at what? Yeah. That’s right. You see the match coming? We’re coming for you next, Jake Archer. I AM THE BEST. I AM THE BEST.”

Sloan’s tone of voice would go stupid every time she mocked Jake Archer, a condescending sneer on her face as she lifted both hands and mocked FM’s next opponent just a little bit more. Finally, she’d go quiet, a chill seen walking its way up Sloan’s spine with a shudder. What had caused it? The sound of breaking ribs and ripping sinew as FM really got into the meat (quite literally) of the side behind Sloan.

“You hear that? That’s going to be your bones next, Archer. Because guess what? WE ARE THE BEST. Archer doesn’t have the good sense to be pissed at the bookers for throwing him in the ring against an opponent with not only more skill than him, but proven technical skills at that. Archer’s just a sad little spot monkey that should be begging me to manage him. At least I’d care about his wellbeing. I’d never let the poor botch monkey go against a technical fighter like FM Young. The answer is no, by the way. But you’re cute for thinkin’ of me, Jakey.”

Holding up the second photo she had, it was Jake Archer in all his glory. The camera would zoom in for a second to show that Sloan had drawn a sad little mustache on the man with tears streaming down his eyes like some cartoon character. Next, she’d rip the photo down the middle, dropping the pieces of paper with another…

“I AM THE BEST. Sure. If you count Ryleigh Mathis, as a real threat. Which I don’t. You got one win against some Irish whore’s tag team partner. Your gimmick…Well. Let’s just say, it’ll be fun to see you put your money where your mouth is, baby.”

Hands lowering, Sloan would take a step back with a shrug of her shoulders, giving the camera a better view of FM now, the fighter still wailing on the now sadly dilapidated side of beef, one last parting remark for the Camera before the shot would go black.

“We begged you. FM Begged you. Me? I don’t give a fuck. Welcome to the Hunger Games, bitches.”